


But Dust and a Shadow

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's patrol is assigned a new interpreter: Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Dust and a Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> For ledtoleadlovers whose original prompt was soldier Dean/interpreter Castiel.

  
Dean’s pretty damn sure there’s a regulation against fucking his interpreter. There has to be. This… This is too fucking good to be real.

They were in a standard issue tent. A tent halfway up a mountain in a country that was anathema to all kinds of hunting, fishing, shooting type pursuits. These mountains were mainly sand, judging by the amount of dirt Dean had to dump out of his boots at the end of the day. Their team had been helicoptered in as far as they could and then it was time to hike up, seek out their allies and potential targets. Sat transmission was a little patchy and Dean knew they were more likely to be the potential targets than any of the so-called terrorists buried deep in caves.

Then there was their interpreter. He’d shown up on base in a suit – a black suit – with a blue tie that matched his eyes and an honest-to-fuck trench coat over his arm. Dean had been watching through his sunglasses, pretending to sleep in the sun when he jumped out of the back of the truck. The swirls of dust didn’t seem to affect this suit guy, didn’t coat his skin or clothes like they did to Dean. He never felt clean out here, not anymore. The guy consulted a piece of paper and made his way towards Dean to ask directions to the base office.

Dean had lifted his sunglasses to reply and the guy had looked right into him. He couldn’t speak for a moment, standing there, lost for a moment, trying to remember where he was, let alone where anything else on this goddamn base was. He led him to the base office and left him there, expecting that to be that. Instead he was summoned an hour later and introduced to his new interpreter. It was only twisted fate that had brought Castiel Novak back to his side. Castiel. What kind of name was that anyway?

They headed into the mountains two days later, nine of them and Castiel. Dean was used to command now, had been since his little stint back home at college. He’d always pegged Sam for the one with the smarts. But here he was, Lieutenant Winchester. Didn’t mean his kit was any less heavy. Or that the dust was less likely to stick in his throat. He’d shown Castiel how to use of the scarves they’d all tucked into their backpacks to cover his mouth and nose. The women round the base were onto a sure thing, weaving the simple scarves.

Castiel stuck close by his shoulder, asking questions in his rumble of a voice. Dean wondered if perhaps he’d been a smoker. Or if learning all those foreign words had torn something in his throat. Afghani certainly sounded sometimes like someone coughing up something nasty. Castiel spoke it naturally, or so it seemed to Dean, crouching in the dirt and sipping some of that nasty coffee while Dean stood around waiting for the sniper or the mortar or just anything. He had a constant itch at the back of his neck, a tingling that said something was going to go wrong, that something was off.

It wasn’t just being in potentially hostile territory that was causing him to realise something was off. He caught Castiel watching him all too often for it to be coincidence. Castiel seemed to have decided to worry at Dean until he got to the core of whatever was bothering him.

“It’s not Afghani,” Castiel said. “It’s Dari – a form of Persian or Farsi. Farsi, from Iran, is quite similar actually.”

Dean watched Castiel over his scarf for a moment. Then he nodded, not quite understanding.

“It is, I would say, the lingua franca. Pashto is also an official language but not quite as widespread.” Castiel tugged his scarf back up, settling it around the back of his neck and tucking it into his vest. He’d refused a uniform, strolling out of his assigned quarters in another crisp shirt, tan this time, and boots and soft pants that clung to his ass. He seemed as comfortable in this as his suit, asking Dean, again, the way to the mess tent.

“Oh.” Dean turned to the rest of the squad who shrugged. “We’re not going to make the next village by dark. Campsite suggestions?” It was easier to take command, to forget the unsettling interpreter and get himself on solid, familiar territory once more.

The map was produced and they set off again, the sun starting to redden as it set.

  
Dean always felt the heat in the evening worst of all. He knew it was hottest at midday, but at noon they tended to find what shade they could and wait out the beating hammer of heat. Didn’t stop him sweating, feeling thin rivers of moisture pour down his spine. None of his guys were exactly minty fresh, not after hiking through rough country for four days. They had five more days, eight more villages before hitting their RZ point. These villages were too isolated for trucks. Folks in them walked for miles over the mountains for the most basic supplies, so it was good manners to walk in too, Dean supposed. In his delirious moments, he liked the idea of tunnels under the mountain peaks. No fucking dust there. And no evening sun.

It was an orange bastard of a disk, determined to make him hurt as he halted for the night, wringing the last bit of sweat from his parched, dehydrated skin. The campsite the boys had found had a tiny trickle of a spring, almost dried up, but Dean eagerly, patiently, filled his canteen. He was sick of the dust in his hair, in his teeth, up his nose, in his ears and down the back of his shirt. He stripped down to his pants, knowing they’d dry before the night chill came. His tags were stuck to his chest, the metal burning a little. The leather thong of Sam’s charm, the one he’d given Dean when they were kids, stuck to his skin too, but Dean never noticed the familiar weight. Instead he stood behind the tent his men had erected for him and Castiel to share and tipped the canteen over his head. He refilled it, feeling the water cool his skin, wash off the grime and leave unreadable lines over the contours of his skin. The water was sun warmed, but Dean did not care. He lifted his face into his makeshift shower, feeling the dust work its way out of his eye lashes.

A soft cough made his open his eyes, blinking away the water. Castiel was still, frozen, his hand outstretched, empty. Dean rubbed his hand across his face, his hair, shaking off the worst of the dripping water. Castiel didn’t move, frozen in place.

“Do something for you, Cas?” The single syllable, the nickname, slid out easily. Castiel wasn’t moving his body but his eyes were roving over Dean’s face, his hair, tracing the path left by the droplets of water down his throat, over his chest, following the narrow trail of hair past his navel to the waistband of his pants. Dean could almost feel the force of his regard like fingers brushing across his skin. He knew his nipples were tightening. He put it down to the drying water.

Castiel seemed to catch himself. “I came to see about food. Rations. Food.”

Dean turned his back, bending to fill his canteen at the spring once more. He needed to break away from Castiel’s stare. He couldn’t think when the guy had his eyes on him like that, like he wanted to peel back every inch of Dean’s skin and peer inside, to devour him. It made Dean want to step into his space, to run his fingers over the rough stubble on Castiel’s check and check what it felt like against his skin, his mouth, his tongue. He wanted to know what Castiel tasted like.

“Yeah. Rations.” Dean straightened up and tipped the canteen over his head again, shaking his head to rid himself of the excess water before slipping into his shirt. He could feel the sweat start up again the moment cloth touched skin.

They didn’t bother with a fire, using a stove instead. Dean wished for a fire, wished they could pretend to be friends round a bonfire on a beach back home, out on some lake shore with beers and girls and a bed to go to. Dean missed his bed most of all. He missed long Sunday mornings under white cotton sheets with a warm body wrapped around him.

The others, without the distraction of trying out fumbling _Dari_ on tribesfolk, decided to pick on Castiel.

“How many languages do you speak, man?” Dorter was always the first to ask a stupid question.

Castiel looked over lazily, before bringing his eyes back to Dean. “I’ve always been good with my tongue.” He shrugged at the cries of “that’s not an answer!”

Dean stabbed at the rations, trying to get them to heat faster. “Seriously, Cas. What you got?” He ignored the whispers at the nickname.

It was then that he realised his mistake. Castiel brought his hand up, spreading his long, elegant fingers wide and Dean wanted to lean forward, suck them into his mouth, mouth at the webbing between them, feel them bump against the back of his throat getting wet and slick and ready. He was glad the darkness was settling in, hiding the flush he could feel along his cheeks.

“Russian was my first. From my grandmother, actually. Very useful before we became friends with all Russians, of course. And a little Polska too.” There was a soft raft of chuckles around the group. “And French, Spanish, German – Latin, if you count that – at school.” Castiel ticked them off on his fingers.

“Very Western of you,” Sandeep said, lolling against the boulder at his back. Castiel shot him a glare that carried a hint of anger.

“Then I went to a specialist college, picked up some Farsi, some Urdu. Learned about others.” Castiel let out a soft chuckle. “Just don’t ask me about Finnish.”

“Guess that makes you a cunning linguist, eh, Novak.” Dorter leaned over to poke Castiel in the shoulder. Dean frowned over the rations and rattled the fork against the side of the can a little too hard. The noise echoed, seemingly for miles.

Castiel took it with grace. “Absolutely. I can talk anyone into anything.” Dean didn’t dare to look up, fixed his eyes on the food. He knew if he looked up, Castiel would slide his eyes sideways to catch his. That would be too obvious.

“Grub’s up.”

  
The tent was hot and stifling when they climbed in. Dean would take dawn watch, so he called it a night early enough. The night air would bring cooler temperatures quickly, he hoped. Make the air inside the tent less like an anvil pressing on his chest as he lay in his sleep sack. He could feel Castiel’s soft breathing against his cheek. The tent was tight, tiny, saving space in the overloaded kit bags.

He knew Castiel wasn’t asleep.

All Dean had to do was let his head roll to the side. He knew Castiel would be watching him, waiting for him. Then all it would take would be a swift movement to pin Castiel back, to take his mouth. Dean Winchester was no coward. Yet that anvil on his chest kept him still, kept his eyes firmly closed.

Castiel knew he wasn’t sleeping either.

“The men said you used to be like them, an ordinary soldier.” Castiel shifted and Dean could tell he was rising up on one elbow, looming closer. He could feel the heat from Castiel’s skin. His naked skin. Castiel’s shirt lay neatly folded on top of his pants and boots. “Were you?”

Dean let his eyes flicker open. Castiel was leaning above him, watching him again. He felt the pressure on his chest increase suddenly. He coughed over his first “Yeah” before swallowing dryly and trying again.

“I was. They gave me a field commission then sent me off to officer school to learn how to be all proper.” Dean let his tone convey exactly how much he’d wanted to do that. But he wanted to keep talking. Anything to stop Castiel asking more unwanted questions. Equally, there was something about Castiel, about his stare and patient silence, that made Dean want to tell him everything. “Sam – my brother, Sammy – went to college first. He’s a lawyer now. And he can’t keep saying that both us Winchester boys are college graduates. Who’da thunk it?”

Castiel leaned closer. His sleep sack slipped down, revealing pale skin, shining in the darkness of the tent. “Did you not want to go to college?”

“Wasn’t on the cards. I wasn’t the academic type. I was good with my hands.” Dean lifted one up as if to show Castiel. Castiel grabbed it, fitting his hand against Dean’s, comparing their sizes, their strengths. Dean let him. “I worked in a local garage ‘til it went bust. Then Sammy wanted college and I needed a job and…” Dean shrugged. “Here I am.”

“Here you are.” Castiel seemed even closer now. His voice was lower than outside, softer. Which was just as well. Tent walls were thinner than paper in the still of the night. Dean had overheard more conversations than he was really comfortable admitting. He tried to remember that as Castiel lowered his captured hand to his side, pinning it to the foam mat beside his head. Then he leaned over and placed his mouth against Dean’s. It was a kiss, Dean knew, but it was also a question, Castiel finally asking permission rather than just pushing to get his way.

Castiel’s lips were soft, despite the days of trekking in the sun. Dean knew he was addicted the moment he brought his mouth closer, turning the light press into something more. Castiel took the movement as permission, pushing Dean back against the mat, lowering his chest against Dean’s, moving his mouth against Dean’s. Everything Castiel did became about Dean.

He turned out to be surprisingly strong, keeping Dean’s hand still and pinned when Dean tried to lift it up, to tangle it in Castiel’s dark hair, pull him closer, tighter. Instead Castiel lifted away, letting Dean mouth at empty air for a moment before Dean knew what was what.

“Cas…” was all he managed to get out, before he realised what Castiel was doing. His body was displayed, spread out on top of the black sleeping bag. The contrast between the black material and the paleness of Castiel’s skin was startling, almost hurting Dean’s eyes. He couldn’t help sweeping his eyes up and down, lingering on the dark dusting of hair on Castiel’s chest, the tiny mole beside his nipple, on the bulge in his boxers. The muscles in his thighs stood out in firm definition as Castiel raised his hips up, shoulders kept down by the low roof of the tent, and pushed his boxers down. Then Cas raised his hand to his mouth, eyes glittering wildly as he licked a broad stripe over his palm, sucking his first two fingers into his mouth at the end. He kicked off his boxers, settled back and made a loose fist around his cock. Dean ached to have his hand, his mouth on Castiel.

There was nothing stopping him.

Dean shuffled out of his sleep sack, letting it crumple in a pile at the end of the tent. He shucked off his t-shirt, letting his hand rest on his cock to relieve some of the pressure. Castiel watched as Dean shoved off his own boxers, throwing them to join the sleeping bag in a pile. They were both naked in the darkness, not able to see clearly but able to taste and touch and feel each other. Dean smothered the noises he wanted to make by kissing Castiel again, harder than before. It was as if Castiel choosing to be naked had allowed some control to slip, some reins to be loosed. Dean was wild. He became even wilder when Castiel wrapped those long fingers around Dean’s cock, leading him with it to lie on top of him, press closer. Dean worked his hand between them and took Castiel’s cock in hand, stroking up and down. The feel of it – all the clichés of velvet covered steel – overwhelmed him. He could smell the sweat of sex in the tent, keeping the night time chill at bay for longer. It was nearly too much.

Dean gasped his orgasm into the curve of Castiel’s neck. He’d expected it to be bony, sharp, but instead Castiel tipped his head back and welcomed Dean there, letting him muffle the groans and cries that he wanted to let loose to fill the night, damn whatever the others might hear. He felt Castiel’s cock grow harder, tighter, and hoped he was close. Dean twisted his hand over the head and was unsurprised to feel all of Castiel’s body go tight. He seemed to come for a long time, resting his mouth in Dean’s hair, mouthing nonsense words. Dean felt sad to let go, fishing for a rag and finding his face scarf. He wondered about using it, knowing that he’d be breathing in the mix of Castiel and his come through the long trek to come. In the end, Castiel found an old sock when Dean hesitated too long, wiping them clean, then kissing Dean once more, clever tongue inscribing circles.

Dean had a moment of worry, then and there, that he was not supposed to have crossed that line. Not supposed to fuck his interpreter. Dean rolled rules and regs about fraternisation through his mind as he wormed his way back into the sleeping bag to let sleep wash his conscience clean. He could hear Castiel’s breath slowing as he drifted off and he used its rhythm to calm himself.

  
Dean regretted giving himself dawn watch when the time came. He was neatly back in his sleep sack, back resting against Castiel’s, no chance that anyone would catch him wrapped tight around Castiel like he wanted to be, when the watch before woke him. He had dreamed of being sprawled out in his own bed, on his white cotton sheets that he’d paid too much for, with Castiel there beside him, fingers moving lazily in his hair as the day began.

Instead Castiel came out and joined him, accepting the mug of lukewarm coffee Dean offered him in lieu of a greeting. The sky had the very slightest shade of grey now, a false dawn before false dawn. Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, furnace hot in the chill of the morning, and sipped at the mug.

  
The next village was a surly place, children running from them into the shelter of their mother’s arms instead of towards them, begging for chocolate, money, anything. The children in the other villages acted like that. Here the opposite made Dean’s hackles rise. He paid closer attention, noticing the flutter of a drape on a window, the sharp twitch of a body around a corner. They were interlopers in the country sure enough, but most people tended to be used to them. Most people left them alone, let the remnants of the insurgency cause their trouble. Dean wondered if those remnants had a foothold here.

He let Castiel do the talking as always, unsurprised to see him crouching down with the men in the centre of the village, let the women serve him tea as he hacked and spat his way through another unintelligible conversation. Dean noticed the atmosphere change – from tension to watchful wariness to something approaching conviviality. Dean knew he was watching Castiel more than he should. His eyes should be moving around the flattened piece of earth, the meagre scrawny tree. He should be watching the windows, the doorways, trying to see what these people were hiding.

Castiel let out a sudden laugh, slapping his hand into the dirt, causing a puff of dust to rise. He gestured at Dean to come closer. Dean tugged his scarf down, using the movement to hide a hand signal to his corporal, and slid down into a crouch beside Castiel.

Castiel leaned over too close, too intimate, and drew out Dean’s dog tags. Sam’s necklace came out too, tangled together. Castiel let them drop onto Dean’s chest and the tribesman opposite reached out to poke at them. A string of Afgh- no, get it right. A string of Dari fell from his lips and Castiel nodded along, a half smile on his face. He barked out a response and waved Dean back. Dean smiled awkwardly and headed back to the rest of the men. A couple of them were shifting about but the majority of them were experienced enough to be watching everything while appearing to watch nothing.

“We should try and get a head start on the way to the next village,” Dean said, voice loud enough that it would carry to Castiel and the men he was crouched down with. He caught the fleeting expressions of understanding – three out of the five understood English at least. He nodded to Castiel when he stood up. Castiel’s face was as shuttered as it had been when they had first met.

They were silent as they made their way out of the village, hair on Dean’s neck standing up the whole way. It was too quiet, no birds or animals, no children playing or women talking. When they were a good ten minutes away, Dean opened his mouth to ask what the hell had been going on. Castiel spun round and clasped his hand over Dean’s mouth.

The team stood in stunned silence for a moment as Dean watched Castiel point with his eyes to cliffs the right and to the left. He caught a shifting movement to the right and the flash of a weapon muzzle to the left. Dean nodded and Castiel removed his hand. There was more going on here than a simple touching base mission.

Even so, when the tents were erected in the dying hour of the day, and the rations were heated and the watch set, it seemed like the oddities of the day had never happened. Castiel didn’t bother climbing into his sleeping sack. Instead he treated Dean to the sight of his naked body, one hand on his erection, the other buried under his raised thigh. There was a condom lying on Dean’s sleeping bag.

Dean paused on his knees in the door flap. Then he shuffled inside and zipped up the tent with shaking hands. Castiel did not say a word. Instead he bit his lip to stop a gasp from waking the rest of the soldiers. He also kept his eyes fixed on Dean’s face. Dean hesitated for a moment, all the blood in his body shooting to his cock as Castiel splayed his thighs to show Dean the fingers working himself open.

Later Dean would not be able to remember stripping his clothes off or sliding the condom on. He remembered the blue of Castiel’s eyes and the way he fumbled his way into a kiss as he slid inside the warmth of Castiel’s body. Cas, as he had gasped out, when Castiel told him to move. Dean hid his face in the curve of Castiel’s shoulder and rolled his hips, desperate to go slow despite the urge to hitch Castiel’s legs higher around his waist and fuck him hard and quick. Castiel didn’t deserve that.

Instead Dean mouthed at Cas’ shoulder, biting slightly, before raising his head and kissing Castiel filthily, sucking Castiel’s tongue into his mouth, promising more with every thrust of his hips. Then Dean leaned back on his heels, roof of the tent brushing the top of his head. He worked his hand over Castiel’s dick, stripping it firmly. Castiel stuffed a hand in his mouth and let Dean, begging for more with his eyes. Dean let himself go as Castiel strained upwards, taut with orgasm. His come spilled over Dean’s hand as Dean thrust two, three more times and filled the condom. He was silent as he withdrew, wrapping the condom in a tissue from his pack. He didn’t let Castiel wipe himself clean though. Instead Dean licked away the come from his hand, from Castiel’s stomach and soft cock.

Castiel kissed the taste from his mouth afterwards.

  
There was a fork in the path that was too narrow to be called a road. Dean had the map in one hand, squinting through his shades at the worn paper. There were two villages on today’s agenda and if they got lost it would fuck the schedule up beyond all reasonable recovery. But there didn’t appear to be any fork on the map where they were. Dean scratched at the hair at the back of his neck before peering down each trail. He had to make a decision soon.

Thankfully, his eyesight picked up a small herd of goats coming up one of the trails. Dean hated goats: they were smelly, ate everything and were tough. Even in stew. But where there were goats there was bound to be people. People who could give him directions. He gestured Castiel up to the front.

“Think you can check where the village is from whoever’s minding those goats?” Dean kept his eyes on the dust the small herd was rising, judging how fast they were moving. The faint chimes of bells round scrawny goat necks was clearer now.

“I hate goats,” Castiel groused, before nodding. He waited until a figure came in sight, a boy, slight and bony. Cas called out a greeting, which the boy returned hesitantly. Then Castiel let loose another stream of words and even Dean could understand the hand pointing back along the trail he’d come along. Castiel answered back, a kind thankfulness apparent in his tone. He waved the soldiers on, hanging back to exchange a few more pleasantries with the boy, who seemed to relax the more Castiel spoke.

Dean was ready to head out when Castiel’s tone changed. It was demanding, harsher. Dean hesitated, waiting for the boy to answer. He sounded scared. Castiel asked one more thing, accepted a nod in return and then turned to Dean.

“We have a problem.”

  
Nine soldiers plus one interpreter were not going to be enough to tackle the insurgent force that was occupying the village over the ridge. Dean thought about calling for back up, knew he had to let HQ know what was happening here. This was supposed to be a milk run, nothing too dangerous. He should have suspected this after their shady reception up the valley yesterday.

Castiel grunted as Dean gathered the men close and whispered the bad news. There was no chance they were undetected out here – they hadn’t been trying to hide after all. Best bet was to get to high ground, a defensible position, and wait for the helicopter to lift them out. Hope they had enough warning that the insurgents were unprepared for an attack. Dean had his not so trusty map out again and tried to spot a place that would meet their requirements.

Dorter took point, Sandeep the rear and they moved out, their usual vigilance heightened. Dean was busy trying to raise a signal on the radio as they hiked up off the trail, heading for the heights. There was a plateau up there, according to the map, secure enough to be able to hide out until he could work out what to do. Castiel seemed to be the only one not watching the cuts and rises of the hills around them. He seemed to be deep in thought.

After an hour’s fast hike and a scramble, they were secure as they could be – plateau, sheer rock on three sides and finally, blessedly, a signal. They communicated in whispers, or more commonly hand signals, and hunkered down. The helicopter would be an hour or two and all they had to do was stay mostly unbothered until then. Dean lay down, propping his elbows on his pack, and used his binoculars to scan the surroundings. Wind whipped across his back, tugging at his clothes, but the only noise it carried was that of a few lone birds.

Castiel half-scrambled, half crawled over to him, lying down so his mouth was near Dean’s ear. “I have an idea but you are not going to like it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. He’d liked most of Castiel’s other ideas. “Talk.”

Castiel lowered his voice even more, bringing it close enough that Dean could feel the hot breaths painting against his cheek. “I would like to go into that village.”

“Because you’re crazy?” Dean asked before he could bite it back.

Castiel shook his head. “I have an… identity… that might be of use to us.”

Dean rolled that over in his head. An identity? What the fuck did Cas mean? Then the pieces slotted into place. “Guess I should have been surprised to have quite such a talented interpreter assigned to my unit? The suit and the fucking trench should have been a clue, right?” Dean kept his voice down, hissing into Castiel’s ear. “College is damn expensive and the ‘Company’ has an eye for those it can help out? Pay a little then, recruit later.”

Castiel nodded. Dean felt it rather than saw it as he turned his head and brought the binoculars up again.

“The CIA are quite persuasive. Regardless, that boy ran right to his village headman and I can guarantee you that they are on their way right now. You work with me then there’s a chance we can delay them long enough for the helicopter to get here.” Castiel didn’t attempt to make his voice silky and persuasive. He spoke with the same gravelly intensity that he’d always had.

Dean let his eyes dart around the plateau. He owed these guys. They’d stuck with him when he had that field promotion and didn’t give him any shit when he arrived back with his shiny certificate and new uniform. He knew their families by now too, knew their wives and children, their mothers and fathers. Dean knew that he was the best choice to help Castiel with whatever crazy ass stunt he had in mind. All he had was Sam, and Sam was more than able to look after himself now.

Dean nodded then turned his head just in case Castiel didn’t get it. “I’m in.”

  
The first thing Dean did was swap jackets with Odell. It was easier to strip off the name and the flag from his uniform than it was to take off Dean’s mass of stitching. Being the newest guy in had some advantage after all. Dean emptied out his pack too, grabbing ammunition and food from the others but handing over his tent. He took a spare canteen just in case though. Castiel was carrying out similar precautions. In ten minutes they were ready. Dean left a few last instructions with Sandeep before shuffling to the edge of the plateau and making his way down. Anxious eyes followed him until he was out of sight.

He hoped they were in time.

Castiel seemed unconcerned behind his sunglasses, slowly stripping off the awkward formality that was so much of his personality. “You are a deserter, now, Dean Winchester. And you will stick to that story until I tell you otherwise. Try to stand behind me and look like you know what is happening.” Castiel turned to look Dean up and down. “I may act inappropriately towards you. It is the cover, not my own regard for you.”

Dean tried to puzzle out what the hell that meant as he readjusted his grip on his automatic and followed Castiel down into the village. Castiel flung one last instruction over his shoulder: “And call me Misha.”

Naturally it only got weirder from there. Two strange guys walking into a village in any remote place would attract a fair bit of attention. Hell, some of the more isolated places in East Texas would not be that dissimilar to this place, especially not in the height of summer. The colour of the dust would pretty much be the biggest difference. The attention would only grow more intense when one of the guys was so obviously armed.

Dean expected them to shoot him in the head before they got within two hundred paces of the first house. He was making bets with himself when Castiel shouted out in a cocky tone. The Dari sounded different to what Dean had been used to hearing from Castiel. More liquid all of a sudden, perhaps, although Dean wondered if he was imagining things. Then a guy rolled out from behind the nearest house and came towards them, arms outstretched and teeth blinding in the sun.

Castiel embraced him. The next thing out of his mouth Dean recognised as Russian. There was a new arrogance to Castiel now, a strutting peacock showing his feathers. The man answered in the same language, eyes flicking to Dean halfway through the conversation. Castiel turned to look at Dean and cocked his hip, one hand landing on it in a display that would not have been out of place in a Pride parade. His other hand inscribed circles in the air. Then he sashayed over to Dean – there was no other word for it – and placed a kiss on his cheek before throwing his arm around his waist and hauling him close. Dean tried to smile, to look like this was normal. Castiel let out another string of Russian before kissing Dean again on the cheek.

“I say you are my American boy, no?” Castiel’s usual gravel had been replaced by a lighter voice, accented heavily. Dean nodded, before uneasily looking back to the insurgent now laughing at him. Castiel kissed his cheek again before heading back towards the man and letting lose another string of Russian. The man laughed again and waved at Dean to follow, before turning and leading them to a house in the centre of the village. Dean had no choice but to follow.

  
There was a bed in the room they were shown to. One bed that was pretending to be a double. Castiel shucked off his pack and Dean followed suit, dumping Odell’s uniform jacket too. Castiel looked sharply at the lump under his t-shirt before moving to block the shape by throwing his arms around Dean’s neck. Dean tried to keep up with the enthusiastic kiss and ignore the way Castiel’s hands were pulling up his dog tags. The insurgent who was with them huffed out another of his laughs at Dean’s expense and said something.

Castiel turned to him, still mostly plastered to Dean’s chest and answered back in a tone that had to be lascivious. The guy shut the simple wooden door behind himself and left Dean and Castiel alone.

“What’s his name?” Dean asked, after a moment’s pause.

“What?” Castiel kept up the ‘Misha’ accent and Dean realised they were probably still being monitored.

“The guy who keeps laughing at me.” Dean thought that was a safe enough statement. He was supposed to be all grumpy and fish out of water here anyway.

“Farhard? He’s a good guy.” Castiel returned his attention to Dean’s dog tags, pulling them up and over his head. He untangled Sam’s amulet and rehung that around Dean’s neck. He followed that up with a kiss that became rather more intense than Dean was expecting, as he poured his worry and frustration into the press of his lips against Castiel’s, forcing his tongue in between Castiel’s gasps. Dean brought his hands around to grab the curves of Castiel’s ass, pulling him closer and grinding into him. He only let go when the door opened again.

A woman stood there, eyes soft and hands full with a basin of water and clean towels. Dean took the basin from her, sticking the bowl on a convenient table. There was steam rising from it and he almost groaned at the idea of washing in warm water. A full on shower would be better, of course, with an unlimited supply of hot water. Dean had a sudden flash of himself, covered in soap, falling to his knees to take a similarly wet and soapy Castiel in hand.

Behind him, he heard Castiel speak to the woman, and then the towels landed beside the basin on the table. The door closed again. The room was tiny enough that Castiel crossed the space in two steps, hands stripping off Dean’s t-shirt this time. Dean leant back to let himself be manhandled.

Castiel reached around him to drench one of the towels. He used the splashing sounds to speak into Dean’s ear. “They let us have this room to rest until the evening meal. They are convinced that the boy was exaggerating when he talked of soldiers. I told them that it was only us he spoke to.”

Dean nodded to show he understood. He turned around in the circle of Castiel’s arms. “And until dinner?”

“We distract them.”

Castiel brought the towel up to clean the dust off Dean’s face. His stubble rasped against the hard towel, but the water felt nice. It was just warm enough. Dean relaxed against the table, letting Castiel swipe at his skin, pull the towel over his chest, his shoulders, his arms. He kept quiet, letting Castiel work, closing his eyes to slits. Castiel kept his eyes on Dean’s, barely breaking eye contact to wet the cloth again. His washing had become more of a means to caress Dean’s skin than any real attempt to clean him before Dean roused himself enough to lean forward and unbutton Castiel’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and pulling off Castiel’s undershirt with an intent that was less than graceful.

Dean noticed his hands were shaking as he reached behind him for a clean cloth. He had to twist around to get it nice and wet before starting to wash Castiel’s face. As if drawn by an all-powerful magnet, Dean leaned in to place a kiss on each piece of skin he cleaned. He had less patience than Castiel, claiming lips before he had properly washed all the dirt and sweat off his visible skin.

“Come to bed?” Dean asked, half joking. Castiel brought his fingertips up to draw over Dean’s cheekbone, the rim of his ear. The gesture was too tender for what they were pretending to be here. Too tender for Dean to feel comfortable. He clasped his hand to Castiel’s, pulling it to his lips to place a kiss on his palm, to suck one, two of those long, elegant fingers into his mouth. Then a noise from outside penetrated his focus.

The distinctive whump whump of a helicopter.

Castiel grabbed at his shirt, pulling it on over his naked chest and thrust Dean’s at him. Dean was still struggling into it when the door slammed open and Farhard rushed in, yelling. Castiel shouted back at him as the noise of the helicopter grew louder. Dean pulled back the thin drape on the window but couldn’t see much of the sky.

“Dean!” Castiel yelled at him, before they were bundled out of the room, some of Farhard’s buddies showing up with AKs hanging over their chests to help. They were marched into the main room of the house, a larger room with a low ceiling that Dean had to duck. He had a clearer view out of a small window here, though not by much. The helicopter was already climbing out of the valley, heading back to base. He hoped to hell that it had managed to pick up the boys before heading off.

Dean sat in the chair he was dragged to and watched Castiel yell at the insurgent leader. There was no sign of the mildly repressed interpreter here. Instead Castiel appeared to be full of Slavic fire and posturing. The argument showed no signs of resolving any time soon, so Dean kicked his feet out and slumped down in the rickety chair, listening in concealed triumph to the sound of the helicopter fading away.

  
Castiel seemed able to talk down Farhard and they sat down to eat, Dean being thrust a plate filled with rice and what he presumed was some kind of goat stew. He really really hoped it wasn’t goat stew. It was hot, spicy and he hadn’t eaten since that morning, so he choked it down and prayed it was lamb. There were other dishes with yoghurt and dumplings and Dean snagged a couple when they came his way. He liked to eat. It wasn’t burgers and apple pie, but it was food and that was pretty much all that mattered.

There were eyes on him as he ate, just as there were eyes on Castiel, but the majority of the hostility had gone. Dean concentrated on his food and not choking when one of the dishes was a mite hotter than he’d expected. After the meal, there was more talk amongst the men. Castiel was involved in it, but Dean let his mind drift, asleep while awake, the familiar trance of a long watch where nothing was happening for a while yet.

Castiel seemed more alive here, oddly, in this Misha persona. He waved his hands around, tugged at his hair. Touched other people. He had lost his stare, though. The one that seemed to see right through Dean and know his every worry and his every sin. Dean realised that he liked the nerdy Castiel. Then the thought that Castiel might be an act just as much as this Russian was sent chills down his spine.

The lamps were flickering low when the conversation died down and Castiel stood to gesture Dean to follow him. He stumbled out of the room behind Castiel, eyes on him and not the edge of the rug. Castiel brought his hand up to steady him, slipping into Castiel mode, eyes boring into Dean for just a moment. A lump that had taken up residence in his chest eased, making breathing easier. The room they had been in earlier was ready for them again, although Dean could see that their bags had been searched. He knew that there was nothing in there that Castiel couldn’t explain away. Instead he stripped to his boxers in silence, watching Castiel do the same.

Castiel blew out the lamp before turning to the bed and tugging the sheets lose. They were patched, worn in places, but the scent of soap rose from them. Dean was suddenly too tired to resist, stretching himself along Castiel’s side.

“I dreamed of you in my bed,” he said, without censoring his words. “Waking up tangled in my white sheets.”

Castiel leaned over, voice back to gravel and purpose. “I’d like to make your dream come true.” Then he kissed Dean hard in the darkness. The scrape of boots in the dirt outside reminded them that they were not alone, for all that they felt secure and safe in their nest. Dean grunted and rolled over, feeling Castiel fit himself along his back.

Dean never thought he’d be so glad to see base ever again in his life. Castiel had been silent for the last half of the journey, having talked more than strictly necessary to get the farmer to allow them to ride in the back of his truck. A day to talk their way out of the village in one piece, four days to hike out of the mountains, then another to hitch rides that brought them close enough to HQ to be able to see the radio masts and the military traffic in the distance. This farmer had said he’d drop them at the gate.

Castiel looked tired. Dean took in the bags under his eyes, the way his skin seemed pinched and tight. He was pretty sure that he didn’t look much better, not with half the dust in the country ground into his skin. He was damn sure he’d have a sun headache for days afterwards too. Castiel let his eyes flutter shut, black eyelashes stark against his pale cheeks. Dean drank the sight of him in.

They might not have fucked since that first time. And Dean was pretty sure that he might never see the supposed interpreter again. But deep down, Dean hoped he was wrong. There was so much he wanted to know about Castiel. Wanted to know if that was his real name, for starters. He was busy constructing an elaborate life for them, out of shadows and dust, when the truck stuttered to a halt.

Dean stood up and leaned out of the truck. Road block. Castiel was awake again, looking ahead too. Dean hopped out and held out his hand. Cas grabbed it and jumped out after him. They were near enough now. The honking horns and angry shouts of drivers were a cacophony that would not have been out of place in any city in the world. Dean let a wry chuckle out as they trampled down the rough grass at the side of the road, making their way to the familiar looking soldiers.

Castiel knocked his shoulder against Dean’s, before they reached the checkpoint. “I think you’ve got potential, Winchester.” His voice was back to the rough rasp that still sent a pulse of heat through Dean’s body. “Once you’ve showered and we’re all debriefed and all, you should come see me.”

This was the Company man speaking.

Dean halted, needing to get his thoughts together. “What if I just want to come and see you? Just you?” It was perilously close to sounding like a girl, like his goddamn brother, so Dean tried to adopt a nonchalant tone. He knew he was failing spectacularly.

Castiel brushed past him. “That would be more than welcome too.”

Dean watched as Castiel crossed the open ground in front of the soldiers, headgear around his neck and hands splayed wide. He thought about getting out of the dust, heading home to pastures new. They weren’t going to be deployed out here much longer, after all. It took Castiel’s amused glance to get him moving again, hands wide and well away from the weapon at his hip.

Maybe he would just get through this first.


End file.
